


Resonance

by Rosslyn



Series: Choice and Eloquence [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blood Bond, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 05:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20501288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosslyn/pseuds/Rosslyn
Summary: Regis was feeling happy.The thought came to him like a wisp of smoke, wafting into his mind the same way the delicious smell of roasted hares wafted into his nose.





	Resonance

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Eloquence.

Regis was feeling happy.

The thought came to him like a wisp of smoke, wafting into his mind the same way the delicious smell of roasted hares wafted into his nose.

Geralt glanced at the vampire, who was prodding the campfire with a stick. A raven stooped on his shoulder, and he cocked his head a little, idly listening to its chatter. Maybe he received good news.

Regis sent the raven flapping away, and sprinkled some more salt on the hares’s underbelly. Geralt smiled at how idyllic it was. After being absolved of his anathema status, the Higher Vampire was regaining strength rapidly, the haunted look in his eye replaced by a familiar mischievous glint. The Witcher blood, in however minute amounts, had helped; as did the intimacy, he was told.

“That is the least romantic proposition I’ve heard,” Geralt had said, rolling his eyes. “‘Bed me again so I can heal’? Seriously, Regis?”

Regis had been entirely unflustered. “Would you have preferred if I simply asked for a demonstration of your famed Witcher stamina instead?” he had said, lifting a roguish eyebrow.

“Only if you get me dinner first,” Geralt had complained. “I’m starving.”

Which is how they ended up here, sitting by the roadside in the middle of the night, roasting three juicy hares. Regis had stood up then and swept into an elegant bow, murmuring ‘as you wish, my dear Geralt’, in that special way of his which made Geralt’s heart do silly little flips, and misted away; he returned mere seconds later with the hares. And a bunch of rosemary in the other hand.

“Show off,” Geralt mumbled, yet entirely unable to keep himself from grinning.

He roasted the hares on a makeshift spit of dry twigs, and they had one each, and shared the last one together. Geralt flopped back onto the bedroll and sighed contentedly. They had been travelling together on the Path for a few weeks, in the general direction of North, but neither of them were in any hurry to get anywhere. They occasionally busied themselves with side contracts posted in nearby villages, but above all contented themselves with the solitude found by the country roads. One of the perks of travelling with a Higher Vampire: wolves and other lesser predatory animals now gave them a wide berth.

“Up for some more healing?” Geralt said, crooking his finger lazily.

“I am heartened to hear your concern for my health,” Regis said with faux gravitas, “But that is hardly a _romantic_ proposition either, Geralt.”

Geralt rolled onto his sides and did his best to put on a suggestive pose. “How about now?”

Regis regarded his efforts with dancing eyes full of mirth.

“I am reminded,” He said in a tightly controlled voice, face straight, “of a painting that I once had the good fortune to see in the Beauclair market square…”

Geralt groaned. “Really, Regis?”

“I must say, the lighting was perfectly chosen, a mesmerising play of light and shadow… you looked positively dashing…”

Geralt sighed heartily.

“You want me to beg?” He said, stretching out on his back and sweeping his arms and legs wide. “Have your way with me, o Mighty Vampire,” he said, voice completely flat. “I am hopelessly enchanted.”

Regis’s lips twitched. Lebioda’s balls, this vampire had _exceptional_ self-control. “Once more, with feeling,” Regis said with feigned solemnity.

Geralt rolled his eyes dramatically. He waved a hand, eyes closed. “How ’bout a round of Gwent?”

Regis burst out laughing. Geralt listened to the happy, light sound and felt the corner of his own lips lift hopelessly upwards. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this carefree.

The elated, gleeful feeling settled into something eager and expectant when he felt a body press against his.

“I am hopelessly enchanted with you,” Regis whispered.

Geralt opened his eyes in surprise. Regis’s eyes were crinkled in the corners, a small smile on his lips, expression open and sincere in that special way of his. All the damn _feelings_ flooded into Geralt at once, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Dammit, Regis,” Geralt muttered. “You win.”

“Mmm,” Regis murmured, pleased, “I shall have my way with you, then, shall I?”

Geralt felt Regis sink into him with appeased sigh. He was feeling languorous and secure, and would have contented with Regis doing all the work, except Regis kept _smiling_ at him, like he was a precious thing to behold and his eyes held all the secrets to the universe, and it was _too much_. He lifted an eyebrow, took advantage of Regis’s momentary distraction, locked his thighs together and rolled. Regis gave a surprised yelp and Geralt hissed as he felt Regis’s cock twisting and hitting places he didn’t know he had, as he grappled to balance himself on top of Regis. He pressed a hand on Regis’s chest and pushed back the vampire’s attempts at getting up.

“About those riding jokes,” Geralt said, and began to work.

Regis thumped back onto the bedroll with a breathy moan. “They — escape me at the moment,” he said, “Although — I certainly appreciate —”

Geralt ground down and Regis’s sentences came to a stuttering halt. Regis’s fingers were digging painfully into his sides, which were probably going to leave a bruise tomorrow, exactly like how Geralt wanted. He pulled on his cock leisurely and grinned when Regis’s eyes snapped involuntarily to his hand.

“Romantic enough for you?” Geralt rasped.

Regis huffed out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, my dear Geralt,” he said, annoyingly still within his full faculties, “how I wish I could have this picture immortalised…”

Geralt bared his teeth and redoubled his efforts. Regis was breathing harshly soon after, long, drawn-out inhales with shaky exhales, and his eyes glazed over; Geralt felt a now familiar thrum of desire and pleasure climb up the bottom of his spine and weaving all the way into his fingers and toes. He felt the core of his entire being pulsate with another, from everywhere and nowhere, and they moved in tandem.

_Resonance_, Geralt recalled vaguely, _and compatibility_.

Geralt practically wrung Regis’s orgasm from him, grinning with triumph as he watched the vampire throw his head back and gasp. He was ready to tumble over the edge as well when Regis suddenly gripped his cock tightly at the base, and Geralt growled in frustration.

“You did promise,” Regis said huskily, and lifted him easily by the hips.

A breathy, broken moan escaped Geralt as he felt Regis dislodge from him. Regis gave him a nudge and he scrambled forward, over Regis’s face, and Regis swallowed him in one, smooth motion, throat working in miraculous and frankly inhuman ways that made him cry out. Regis’s fingers dug in his hip, just this side of painful and perfect, and the vampire had _no_ gag reflex, oh god —

Geralt smelled warm saffron and sharp spices, a flash of something red and warm, and let himself spill down Regis’s throat.

“Don’t tell me,” Geralt collapsed next to Regis and heaved, “_that_ has healing powers.”

Regis laughed quietly. “No,” he said, voice amused and slightly hoarse from use, “I just like how you taste.”

Geralt hummed, feeling warm all over. “And here I was, thinking I was special.”

Regis chuckled. “Whyever would you think that?”

Geralt smiled, rolled over, and slung an arm unceremoniously over Regis’s chest. The vampire let out a small ‘oof’, and began stroking Geralt’s arm absently, automatically.

“Why indeed,” Geralt murmured, pleased.

Regis’s quiet laugh ruffled his hair as the vampire pressed a kiss to his brow.

Geralt closed his eyes and let himself drop into a meditative state. It was a serene night. The campfire crackled quietly. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, leaving shadows of swaying trees. Wolves howled in the distance. It could indeed be described as romantic, and damned if it wasn’t the first time Geralt felt this way on the Path.

He idly thought about how romantic and _old fashioned_ Regis was, four hundred years old or no. During their first few days on the road, Regis was entirely respectful and, although extremely receptive and enthusiastic, would initiate nothing. The word _propriety_ and _courting_ might have been uttered once or twice. Geralt wanted to scream into a Nekker nest.

He finally gave up and ambushed Regis when they were both washing in a cool stream. The vampire had nearly choked when he turned around and saw Geralt lying on the riverbank, wet and gloriously naked, stroking himself. Geralt raised a defiant brow in an obvious invitation, propriety be damned, and Regis had acquiesced…

“Again?” Regis said sleepily, next to him. “My, the Witcher reputation is entirely well deserved…”

Geralt opened his eyes in surprise. He was thinking of Regis’s cock, true, but the thought had floated by him like any other in meditation, and he was not particularly affected; he was not hard. He leaned up a fraction and squinted at Regis.

Regis was blinking blearily and suddenly looked sheepish. “Oh, dear,” he said.

Geralt raised his eyebrow in question. Regis glanced at the sky, and looked mildly discomfited: “The full moon is approaching,” he said. “It amplifies… resonance.”

“Telepathy?” Geralt said dubiously, and directed his Witcher Senses inwards. But there were no voices in his head, no foreign presence. He just felt warm and cocooned, which wasn’t unusual considering he had just had spectacular sex. During which, speaking of.

“Wasn’t mesmerism I felt, I guess,” Geralt said.

“Mesmerism _is_ a form of telepathy,” Regis replied automatically, and it sounded so like Regis that Geralt had to smile. “But no, I would never try to mesmerise you, my friend. Not in the sense you are thinking of.” Regis glanced at him with a fond expression. “You might be vulnerable to immobilisation, but I’m certain no one could bend your will.”

Geralt nodded and watched Regis, keeping his silence. The vampire stared into the campfire with an inscrutable, distant look in his eye.

“The blood bond,” Regis murmured at last. “The feelings… are sometimes projected… If they are strong enough.” Regis watched Geralt with a worried expression, as if expecting the Witcher to be spooked. “You know I would never intrude in your mind, Geralt.”

“Of course,” Geralt said. It didn’t escape his notice that Regis still hadn’t explained what the ‘blood bond’ was. In fact, since they set on the Path again, the vampire had been positively avoiding the very mention of the topic until now. Geralt hadn’t asked — didn’t _want_ to ask, because he was not sure what answer he wanted, what answer he should hope for.

The silence stretched out in the thickness of the night, as neither of them said anything for a long while. A wisp of melancholy, tasting like the tangy salt of the sea, drifted into his mind. He remembered — with great reluctance, but also a sense of inevitability — Skellige, the angular cliffs, and the bitter wind. Yennefer’s face, heartbroken and crestfallen, when they finally undid the spell. The obsessive passion that enveloped him like a haze had lifted. He hadn’t realised how much he was carried by the current while he was swept up headlong with it, but then he had emerged from the water, clear-headed for the first time in years.

He felt the loss keenly since. Not just of Yen, but of a sense of direction, a hope and a dream; the dream of home, even though Yen had always chided him about dreaming of unachievable things. The idea that everything he had chased for, had thought he had, was fabricated by the power of a Djinn, left him reeling. How cruel the joke had been.

Regis made a small noise and Geralt looked up just in time to see a flash of hurt before the vampire averted his gaze.

“What did you see?” Geralt asked, instinctively.

Regis offered him a tight smile. “Nothing specific,” he said, trying to sound light. “After all, it’s not quite telepathy per se. I shan’t be reading your mind, Geralt. You have nothing to worry about.”

Geralt sat up. “Did you see Yen?”

Regis hesitated. “Yes,” he said, finally. He looked at Geralt, but his face was impassive, a mask.

“And I sensed sadness… and regret.”

Geralt scowled. He was never fond of telepathy because of how Yen had always carelessly plucked thoughts out from his mind, but he was damn near sure vague projections of feeling without context was going to be inevitably worse.

“You know Yen and I are over,” Geralt said slowly. “But you never asked why.”

Regis looked at him curiously. Geralt told him about the Djinn, and Yen’s last wish; of the moment the magic disappeared and how he felt something snap; how he both gained clarity for first time in decades and felt utterly and irrevocably lost.

“It was over,” Geralt said, tasting the hollowness all over again. “Maybe it never began. Everything started with a spell…” he glanced at Regis, who had also sat up, and had placed a comforting hand on his arm. He swallowed. “I don’t want to be led around because of another spell again,” he said, voice coming out thick and harsh.

He tried not to think about how _right_ everything felt when he was with Regis. How perfectly slotted into each other they had been. He did not regret saving Regis, or finding out about the blood bond; in fact, he had been inordinately glad… Regis had been his friend for a long time, but now the axis of his world had tilted again, and he was desperately afraid it was another cruel twist of fate, a source of Vampiric magic he did not understand…

Regis inhaled sharply, and his grip tightened on Geralt’s arm.

“Oh, my dear Geralt,” he breathed, “I see now my mistake.” His grasp was getting painfully tight. “I had worried… no, it was my cowardice,” he said, “I should have clarified…”

Despite himself, Geralt felt a small smile tug at his lips. “Eloquence, Regis,” he murmured.

Regis ducked his head. When he looked at Geralt again, his eyes were clear and earnest, his voice steadfast and full of conviction.

“Blood bonds are not created,” Regis said, “they simply _are_.”

Geralt blinked. Regis smiled.

“It is not a spell, or the work of some magic,” he said firmly. “You cannot make a blood bond… and you cannot break one. That is why it is revered, and exceeds all else in the Vampiric code of honour.”

“It is resonance and compatibility,” Regis repeated. “It signals two individuals who are most well-suited in their core… and as we are born like we are, there is nothing extrinsic about blood bonds. It is… an essentially inherent state of being.”

Geralt gaped. He could feel his eyebrows inching involuntarily to his hairline, as he digested this information. “Regis,” he began slowly, tasting the shape of every word on his tongue, “Are you saying we are _soulmates_?”

Regis fell silent. Geralt was fairly certain the vampire was not breathing.

“For the lack of a better word, yes,” Regis said finally.

He watched Geralt carefully as if expecting him to bolt.

“That is — ” Geralt cleared his throat. He could feel a stupid grin was trying to split his face. “Damn, that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me, you bloodsucker.”

Regis stared at him, stunned. “I — ” he began, but seemed utterly at a loss of what to say. He flicked his gaze hopelessly to the fire and back, then made a small, indignant sound. “And you repay me by calling me names?”

“My bloodsucker, then,” Geralt said beatifically. He liked the sound of that. A lot.

Regis huffed and rolled his eyes. “You are the _most_ — ”

Geralt interrupted his comment with a yank. Regis, admirably, was already used to the Witcher’s uncouth methods, and licked into his mouth immediately, grazing Geralt’s lip with his fang. Geralt tugged him closer. Regis relaxed under his grip, and Geralt felt threads of relief bleed through, mixed with shadows of disbelief, the nagging worry that Geralt didn’t understand the gravity of what was said, should’ve been scared and running for the hills if he did, the cautious hope that maybe Geralt _did_ understand, the overwhelming sense of elation, surging happiness, and — a dark, possessive need to claim —

“So, about that Witcher reputation,” Geralt murmured.

Regis grinned against his lips. “I live and serve,” he said, and pushed Geralt back on the bedroll once more.

The moon was hanging high in the sky when he got his senses back again. Regis was pressed face down next to him and utterly immovable, and Geralt felt a stab of ridiculous pride at the knowledge that he had worn out a Higher Vampire. (His Higher Vampire.)

“I don’t know what you are thinking,” Regis mumbled against the bedroll, “But I don’t like the tone... Are you calling me old?”

Geralt laughed, and a thought suddenly occurred to him. He turned and squinted at Regis.

“Can you, though?” He asked, “Read my mind?”

Regis blinked once, blearily, in assent.

Geralt smiled, shuffled close, and slung an arm over Regis again. “Read me,” he said.

He used to think for Yennefer at times like this. Sunrise and waterfalls and fog over mountains, salmons leaping from streams and rain falling on roofs, beautiful things he knew Yennefer would appreciate. He tried to conjure images for Regis, and thought of Oxenfurt libraries and rows upon rows of dusty tomes, of cozy apothecaries and shelf upon shelf of neatly arranged potions and vials. He thought of dense forests teeming with wildlife and moonlit herbal gardens, and felt Regis twitch in surprise.

“Oh,” Regis said, sounding more awake now, “How nice.”

He looked at Geralt with deep sense of fondness, and stroked Geralt’s cheek.

Geralt conjured a mindscape of books and forests and mountains and tranquil villages for Regis, and they wandered in it together for a long while. When at last he ran out of things to recall, he thought his mind would stray to home again, like last time, maybe to Corvo Bianco, but it doesn’t come; instead, the idea of home conjured up a warm smile, the smell of cinnamon and wormwood, of clouds of grey-granite mist, of a fanged grin.

Beside him, Regis inhaled sharply.

“Oh,” he said. The small sound was filled with reverence and emotion. His other hand stilled in Geralt’s hair. “Oh, my dear Geralt.”

Geralt felt the tips of his ear grow warm. He was not one for rhetoric, and Regis had just told him about the _intrinsicness_ of the blood bond… He was tired of endings, and now a small, glimmering hope murmured in his mind that perhaps _this_ was the thing that did not need to end. After all, Higher Vampires were immortal.

Regis beamed at him. He brushed against Geralt’s temple lightly, and suddenly images appeared in Geralt’s mind: flashes of white hair, a sardonic smirk, a small but genuine smile. Campfire and laughter, the singing of silver swords. Golden, cat-like eyes, filled with warmth, the smell of leather and musk. Heavy, burning desire tangled with possessiveness, a profound hope of belonging, and a fierce sense of protectiveness, until the very ends of time…

Geralt gasped. He felt as if he was landing on solid ground again after a long time spent wading through the stars. He locked eyes with Regis, who was regarding him with a similar expression, open and vulnerable and certain and unwavering at the same time, and _understood_.

“I am with you, my dear Geralt,” Regis whispered. “I am with you.”

**END**


End file.
